


I Spy

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[<b>AU</b>: The name of one's Soulmate is written in their skin, which sometimes pays a <i>very</i> heavy price.]</p><p>It's after the war.  And some soldiers who survived cope their aftermath in the most damaging ways imaginable. </p><p>Peggy is no exception. </p><p>Sometimes, the lights in our life are not always prophesied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

          Cousin Damiano suggests the worst. 

          When he sees the name, his lips part, and he stares at you, terrified. Both of you have heard the stories: _the strange_. Those _strange_ who are taken away, beaten, screamed at, forced to choke on their own _insanity_. A cycle of torture, a direct path to madness; _but nobody talks about those places_. 

          That is a woman’s name, red and glaring in your flesh. 

          It depends on the person. Some have a name scarred above their breast, others down their arm; some at their hip. The unfortunate have a name dug into their cheek, but they are rare, and you are relieved, _so very relieved_ , you are not one of the unfortunate. Your name, _her name_ , is hidden behind a veil of clothing. 

_Margaret Violet Carter_ burns a few inches from your right breast.

          And Margaret is a woman’s name.

          You do not know who Margaret Violet Carter is, and you hope to never know. Cousin Damiano shouldn’t have seen the name; he walked in on you changing out of your diner uniform, and you yelled, and he screamed, blubbering apology after apology and then he sees it–– _the names are always so ugly_. Cousin Damiano gapes at you, as if you’ve betrayed him, as if you’ve committed something so very sinful.

          Later, when you’re decent, he sits you down and suggests you peel off the name.

          Others in your position have done that. Skinned their bodies.

          Too scared to face their inevitable fate.

          You can’t. You can’t erase the name. Margaret Violet Carter is your demise. One day, Mama and Papa will see the name. They’ll point, they’ll burst into tears; oh, Christ, how _dreadful_ their sweet, darling angel is _strange_. Her soulmate, _her soulmate_ , is a woman. A woman. Mama might think it’s a mistake, but fate doesn’t create mistakes; the name is not a mistake.

          Margaret Violet Carter is not a mistake.

          You shudder at the thought of shredding the name away, the blood which shall drip to the floor. The shock of mutilating your body. Cousin Damiano drops his gaze when you refuse. He gulps, and looks you in the eye afterwards, the terror lingering; he’s sincere, concerned, he doesn’t want you to be taken away.

          So, he says: hide it.

          Show no one. 

          Hide the name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          And that is what you do, for the remainder of your life.

          High collars. Buttoned blouses. Heavy clothes.

          You hide your soulmate, and you count the days until your efforts are worthless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Babies are not born with names engraved in their skin. The name develops as the child ages. When one hits puberty, the name stings, growing with the body. By eighteen, the name is fresh, clear and brutal. Most people hide them, either embarrassed, too private, bashful. Or in fear.

          It comes in handy for those fighting in the war.

          The deceased have their soulmate’s name carved into their body; it’s obvious who to contact, and sometimes it’s not so obvious. Sometimes the one they’ve married does not reflect the name. Soldiers have no choice but to bare their name, and some are beaten for it, some are shot in the skull, some imprisoned. 

          Until Howard Stark came along, and developed a brilliant system which _overwrites_ the name. A secret invention of his. One has to go through multiple hoops in order to reach him. 

          He helped Captain America.

          Changed the name _James Buchanan Barnes_ to _Margaret Violet Carter_.

          Steve was forever grateful for Peggy’s cooperation.

          She, however, had no need for Howard’s magic pen. The name printed in her skin is, indeed, a man’s. 

          It stays, even after death.

_Steven Rogers_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Your best friend, Joey Brown, disappears. 

          The last time you saw him, he was bright eyed and bushy tailed, informing you he would join the army. That it was his destiny. You smiled, and nodded, ignoring the regret and shuddering anxiety rushing through your body. Joey promises to write, or, at least, say a good bye before he’s sent away.

          He doesn’t say good bye.

          He doesn’t write either.

          You do not ask.

          You do not _dare_ ask.

          So you hide yourself in your bedroom, and cry a little, because you dread the idea that your hunch is correct. _He’s like you_. They saw the name. They saw the name, and made him disappear. They strike off his existence, _set the name on fire_. You sob, and weep over your poor friend, and then stop.

          You breathe.

          Run your fingertips across the name, near your breast. You feel the outline of the _M_ and shiver. Holding your knees, you bow your head and hide yourself away for a few hours, a few hours until you’re okay. Until it’s okay to stand up, leave the privacy of your own room, and walk back into reality.

          The name _Margaret_ seems so _forbidding_ now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Six o’clock. Sharp. It’s cold, wet and dark outside. 

          And she walks in, head high, back straight, her heels _clacking_ against the cool floor. There’s purpose in her posture. A sense of authority, but her eyes are masked in dark paint, hiding the truth. You only need to study her once, and she is your open book. A maze of mystery, wonderful and _yours_. 

          The girl smiles, as if the world is about to end.

          A soldier.

          She’s fought in the war. There are black rings under her eyes, a droop in her gaze; she’s grieving. You don’t smell the slightest hint of alcohol until you lean over and top-up her coffee. Alcohol, lavender, nicotine, ash and blood. It’s the most beautiful scent you’ve endured, and you’re startled momentarily. Fortunately, she doesn’t catch your surprise.

          Concern hits you.

          You look at her, and suddenly her health is your top priority. 

          ‘Rough day, hon?’ She’ll lie. She’ll meet your eyes and lie.

          ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

          Close to a lie.

          You tilt your head. ‘Need me to bend an ear? I got plenty a’time on my hands.’

          There’s the smile. _Happy, yet guilt-ridden, as if she knows the world will scatter to dust tomorrow and only she knows_. Maybe the world already is dust, maybe the world has already died, and you and she are its last survivors. When you watch her, lost in those dark, warm eyes, you think––

          –– _I’d die for you_.

          ‘Please,’ she insists, ‘I’d hate for you to get into any trouble.’

          ‘What? For helpin’ out a customer? You act s’if I ain’t done that before.’ You grin at her; you flirt, and you shouldn’t flirt, but it’s hard not to. She’s beautiful, broken, and she doesn’t belong here.

          ‘I’m fine,’ she says, pleasantly. Red lips slightly chapped. Mascara isn’t dry. _She, too, has cried today_. ‘Although your concern is sweet.’ Your cheeks redden. ‘Sometimes, one enjoys silent company, and I fear I may bore you with my woes.’

          ‘I don’t think you can bore me, English.’

          The nickname spills, and you’re too slow to catch it.

          But she laughs. Or, chuckles. And you smile.

          ‘You don’t know me.’

          ‘ _Let_ me know ya.’

          She squints her eyes, and you’re being challenged.

          You accept.

          ‘Let’s start with a name. Or do you wanna be called English?’

          ‘As endearing as it is, I agree that I should introduce myself: call me Peggy.’

          Then she offers you her hand to shake, and you’re flabbergasted. It’s so bizarre, you laugh and happily do as she wishes. Peggy. ‘Short for Margaret?’

          ‘Mhmm. But, _please_ , Peggy will do.’

          Your smile drops.

          A coldness envelops your form, and you suddenly feel nauseous. Peggy softens her expression, ‘Are you all right, dear?’

          ‘Yep! I––I’m Angie.’

          ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Angie.’

          You hope a customer requires your attention, but none call for you, and when you meet Peggy’s eyes again, you’re stumped, frazzled and a monster is slowly eating away at your mind. _Ask_. What choice do you have? You won’t sleep tonight if you don’t ask, but you won’t sleep tonight if you _do_ ask.

          What choice do you have?

_Ask_.

          ‘Got a second name, English?’

          ‘Carter. Why do you ask?’

          ‘Curious, I s’ppose.’

          She frowns, lowering her chin; she’s trying to read you, but you won’t allow her to. But now it makes sense: why you felt so _compelled_ towards her; why you _do_ feel compelled towards her. Why her smile, her laughter, her eyes–– _break you_. Make your heart _beat with life_. 

          Finally, you have met your demise.

          A soldier, an alcoholic; shattering.

          And she takes your breath away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          When a customer eventually calls for you, you wish her a farewell, in which she returns affectionately.

          As you brush past, your arm touching hers, a spark bursts.

          You see the name. Her soulmate.

          Engraved over her wrist, like a bracelet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          The name does not belong to you.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

          Small children tease; they can be cruel. Little Angela was always a victim. _Show us your mark, show us your name, show us your bruises_. A girl once held a stick to Little Angela’s face, enjoying her wide-eyed, petrified look, and _demanded_ she reveal the name lightly dotted in her flesh. 

          But Little Angela’s name still hasn’t developed yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          It doesn’t develop until you’re sixteen. 

          Painting your nails, arranging your hair; picking out your favourite dress to wear for your best friend’s party. Naked, you stared at your body in the mirror, your flat stomach, small hips, perky breasts and the name. You felt the name, the woman ghosting your flesh, and you stared, stared, wondering if this was a mistake, _hoping this was a mistake_.

          Girls are sweet, warm and cute. They laugh, and they smile and, most of them, are nice and comfy. 

          Girls are pretty.

          Girls have always been on your mind.

          You could only decipher the first name, and it _stung_ when you touched it, your thumb brushing over the letters. _Margaret_. You didn’t react, not all at once; it came in gradual stages. At first, you thought nothing of it; and then, you _did_ think. Because two days later, you kissed a girl, and a girl kissed you, and it was wonderful and perfect and tender, and then she was gone. 

          And, afterwards, you think, 

_I’m next_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          The Griffith has a room, available to rent. 

          Miriam Fry encourages the girls to advertise the room, and you’re quick on the task. You can sell. It is your _job_ to sell, and you can sell a room; you can sell a room with fantastic company, quiet nights, and good food. Finding a girl, though, worthy of such luxury is a difficult matter in itself.

          Only one girl comes to mind.

She enters the diner everyday, six o’clock, tired and smiling. 

          You fall in love with her everyday. An easing, smooth manoeuvre. 

          You stay awake, thinking about Margaret Violet Carter. Her secrets. Her eyes. Her lovely, gorgeous face. Her voice, strong and warm. You’re wide awake, your soulmates’ name digging into your skin, and, for the first time, you cherish the mark. You wish to kiss the mark; to rub your fingertips across the name and kiss them lightly. 

          Peggy likes you.

          She seeks you out. The moment she enters the diner, her eyes find yours; she’s a hawk, calm and patient with her prey, watching. And then she has you, locked in her talons, and you’re desperate to analyse such a beauty. 

          One day, she comes in with a bruised face.

          One day, a black eye.

          The next day, an old wound bleeds through her blouse, and you assist in wiping away the blood, covering the wound, insisting she go to a hospital. She locks your gaze, and thanks you––thanks you for your generosity, your kindness; the fact you both barely know one another, and you give her everything.

          It is not The Telephone Company she works for, but you play along with her game.

          If it makes her happy.

          When you move in to fix the bandage, secluded in one of the lavatories, you taste her breath on your lips; the alcohol. Your gaze drops to her, and she watches you, innocent and suddenly so delicate, and your breast starts to hurt. The name _aches_.

          ‘Did ya know him?’

          You hold her wrist, sore with _Steve Rogers_ ’ name plastered over it. She smiles fondly, dreamily; lost in a memory. 

          ‘I did.’

          Your heart throbs.

          ‘He was the bravest man I ever knew.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          A bottle of coca-cola is in her hand, a cigarette in the other. 

          You finish your shift, and see her outside, a few metres away, seated on the ledge. Smoke billows between her lips, and you wonder if she’s waited for you. Probably not. Peggy doesn’t seem to hear you when you walk over, anxious and curious. You sit beside her on the ledge, and then she stirs.

          The liquid in the coca-cola bottle is not coca-cola.

          She raises the bottle to her lips, and swallows a generous amount of the liquid. And, then, she says, voice rattling, ‘They’re so awful to me.’ You soften your expression, lean closer. She’s talking to you, and you want every word. ‘The assumption is that––you play the hero, you’re hailed the hero.’

          Afterwards, she scoffs.

          What a joke.

          ‘Captain America is fiction.’ She studies the name on her wrist. ‘They don’t talk about the Captain America I knew. And they wouldn’t, because if they had the slightest idea about what sort of a man he was, they’d erase him from history.’

          ‘Is the good Captain… _him_?’ You point to her wrist.

          ‘That’s right.’

          ‘Did he wear your name too?’

          ‘He did not. I have yet to meet the one who does.’

          You watch her, eyes adoring. 

          ‘I fought alongside many.’ She finishes the bottle of coca-cola. ‘And then we’re forgotten. You’re not a soldier, unless you’re dead.’

          ‘Why d'you do this to yourself?’ You whisper.

          She knows what you’re referring to. Placing the bottle aside, she lets out a heavy exhale, abandons her cigarette, and you think she needs sleep. A bed to rest on. A body to hold and kiss. ‘I wish I could provide a reasonable answer.’

          ‘Whatever answer ya have is reasonable, English.’

          ‘You’re sweet.’ Peggy turns to you, and your heart skips a beat. ‘Sometimes, I don’t know how to forget, and, sometimes, I really want to forget. Not about him. Not _just_ about him. About everything I endured, my men endured; my family.’

          ‘Peggy…’

          ‘How I wish––’ her voice catches, ‘––I’d have met you sooner.’

          You take her hand, squeeze tightly, and she squeezes back. You hold each other, fierce and determined in your touch. The name burns your flesh, and you’re conscious of it sinking into your veins.

          Meeting one’s soulmate is never painless.

          You just never really considered the level of agony coursing through you, until it happens.

          ‘Let me help.’

          Peggy blinks, sighs, and reaches out to touch your face. ‘What do you have in mind?’

          ‘How ‘bout a drink? I got a bottle of Schnapps back at my place––we can take turns and see who’s sick first. What d’ya say?’

          She laughs breathily. ‘I’d love to, but… I should probably return home, myself.’

          The woman doesn’t refuse the alcohol. You both are aware of how much she desires it, and if she were to accept your invitation, you wouldn’t give her the Schnapps. 

          You’d give her _yourself_.

          You would listen.

          Touch her.

          Cuddle her.

          Understand her.

          Peggy doesn’t want to be given any of these gifts, though. She’s too scared.

          You don’t see it as that yet. You see her not wanting to be with you, not wanting to associate herself with you, and it hurts. It really hurts, and you don’t know if you want to cry in front of her, or walk away and cry in the shelter of your own apartment. You wish you didn’t care for her as much as you do.

          When your hand slips out of hers, she notices.

          ‘All right. Fine.’

          You stand, ready to leave, and she realises her mistake, already wanting you back. ‘Angie, please don’t get the wrong impression.’

          ‘It’s okay. I get it.’

          You don’t.

          Neither does Peggy.

          You can’t look at that face, at her puzzlement, her apologetic expression, her deep, intoxicated eyes. She calls you back when you walk home, and you regret not stopping and running back to her.

          That night, you cry into your pillow, and internally scream at your idiocy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          You try again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          This time, you won’t be mad at her. You won’t give her any silent treatment; you won’t punish her for a fault which is not hers. You turn over a new leaf, and try again, for her, for this damaged soul. 

          She needs a home.

          When apologies are uttered, hesitant smiles shared, quiet confessions passed––she tells you her fear: this time next week, she’ll be out of her own apartment, but she can’t, _won’t_ , tell you why. She fiddles with her sleeves under the table, guilty, embarrassed and uncertain.

          You know what to say.

          So you tell her about The Griffith, delighted with the idea that she may move in, that you’ll see her in the morning, at breakfast, at dinner, and you can check in on her to make sure she’s okay. To make sure she’s not drinking herself silly; to make sure she has something to feel happy about.

          ‘Women only. A safe community for modern female professionals. Apartment for rent. 550 square feet, furnished, full bath, high floors, quiet building, security assured. Close proximity to the Lexington Avenue local. Continental breakfast upon request. Paradise or what?’

          ‘That sounds like paradise.’

          ‘That’s because it is!’

          You stop; start again.

          Your heart races, about to burst, as if desperate for you to cease trying.

          This will hurt.

          ‘The only thing that could possibly make it better is if ya lived next to me.’ You pull a relatively smug expression, ‘Oops! You would. 3C if you need a cup a’sugar.’

          She stares at you, perplexed, and you don’t know if you’ve said too much, or said too little. Hesitance blocks her voice for a moment; expression illegible, and, for a split second, you believe you have her.

          That she’ll accept.

          ‘… I really shouldn’t, Angie.’

          There it is.

          The denial. The refusal.

_She doesn’t want you_. ‘Am I missin’ something here?’ Now, _now_ , your _mind_ screams at you to _stop_. Do not, do not, do not dig yourself a deeper grave, but the words pour and you’re helpless. ‘You need a place to stay; this one’s great. So… I’m thinkin’ maybe it’s me.’

          Because that’s how it’s always been.

_You_.

          You, the strange, the abandoned, the one who’ll suddenly _disappear_. 

          ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good neighbour.’

          Hating has always been easy for you; hating somebody has always been easy for you. You are a woman who hates, despite the common assumption thrown that you’re a silly, cheerful, _perfect little angel_. 

          But when Peggy walks away, and you want to hate her, you fail.

          For you only love her all the more.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

          Don’t you think, a friend says, that this whole soulmate business is not the people we end up with for the rest of our lives, but the people we _save_? Maybe we were destined to save certain people, however we were never meant to love them; never meant to stay with them.

          Just a sort of cure, and then we move on.

          It makes sense. After all, Peggy doesn’t share your name, and yet you have hers. So, what does that mean?

          You are her saviour? 

          Something temporary? A nobody, forgotten about when the woman in your skin no longer requires your company. 

          You want to believe her.

          But there is a flaw in her logic: you’ve already fallen in love.

          And you can’t climb back out of the pit.

          Your hands are otherwise occupied, holding and clinging to the girl you have been destined to meet all of these years. 

          Both of you laugh at the idea. Sometimes, the discussion of soulmates is too sensitive, too difficult, too complicated. Sometimes, the discussion of soulmates is romanticised––and there is _nothing_ romantic about a soulmate.

          You’d know.

          Because love isn’t supposed to be this painful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          It is Peggy’s fault, and you want to punish her, so you refuse to cooperate, you refuse to talk to her. On the clock, you have no choice but to serve her, play the waitress, but you will not cooperate. Even with those eyes, _those sad, sad, sad, pretty eyes of hers_. 

          What’s worse is that she can’t even _look_ at you, she’s so ashamed.

          Your punishments are unnecessary. Peggy is punishing _herself_ , and you want her to stop, because Peggy’s punishments are fatal, lethal; _cruel_. The beatings are evident in her sweet face, and your heart oozes with guilt.

          At one point, she tries to talk to you, and you falter, nearly spilling the coffee, but she stops, changes her mind, and returns to reading the paper. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Regardless, you’re upset. You’re upset that when she leaves the diner, empty and cold inside, she doesn’t wish you a farewell; does not tell you about her day.

          You find it difficult to forgive.

          You find it _especially_ hard to forgive those you are close to.

          When Miriam Fry announces that the room has been rented out, you return to your room, and hit your fists against the wall. You’re livid, red with madness, and you regret not trying harder. You failed to offer Peggy a place to stay, and, somehow, you have to redeem your mistake.

          The next day, though, Peggy doesn’t show.

          Nor the next.

          You start to believe she’s stopped coming to see you, and your heart breaks.

          Of course, fate has never been so simple.

          The next time you find Peggy Carter, you almost don’t recognise her. She passes you on the street, retired for the day, and exclaims that she’s been looking for you––that she lost her way, and she’s been looking for you and, _wow_ , it’s so funny how the world spins around; Peggy is _convinced_ she can feel gravity, the earth rotating on its axis, and she’s genuinely concerned she’ll lose balance.

          The next time you find Peggy Carter, she is drunk.

          And you’re paralysed in fear at first.

          Not Peggy. Not your Margaret. Not her. 

          Because Peggy is strong, proper, and professional. She would never, _ever_ damage her reputation by hobbling down the street _intoxicated_. You haven’t observed her in this state before, and you come back to your senses fast, raptured with worry and emotion for this poor soldier.

          Her styled hair has fallen slightly out of place, red lipstick smudged in the corner, and that smile is not Peggy’s smile.

          Immediately you blame yourself.

_This is your doing_. If only you didn’t act like such a _brat_ ––

          ‘I can still hear ‘em,’ Peggy breathes, leaning into you. You cooperate, pressing her body to your side, holding her in place, ‘Those men who screamed… for help.’ She squints, ‘They’d always call for their mother––don’t you find that so very sad, Angie?’ She laughs, a wicked, bitter laugh. ‘I can’t stop hearing ‘em.’

          ‘C’mon, Pegs. Lemme take you home.’

          She resists, and grabs the back of your collar. You are forced to look at her, and you’re mesmerised. Peggy swallows, gaze downcast, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. You can smell a mixture of rum, tonic, and vomit. How can this beautiful, supposedly sane woman, smell of such awful things?

          You want to cry.

          ‘I wan’ed to tell you about my day,’ she pauses, brows furrowed, trying her hardest to maintain her balance; to appear sober. ‘You’d think––think it’d be better when the war’s over.’ She shakes her head, ‘It’s not.’ She meets your eyes. ‘I miss it, Angie. I miss the war.’

          ‘It’s okay, babydoll. That’s okay.’

          ‘I miss _you_.’ 

          ‘I miss you, too. I’m so sorry, I––’ You clear your throat, and reposition Peggy better so she can lean most of her weight on you, ‘C’mon, English. I gotta get you somewhere safe. It ain’t safe at this hour.’

          ‘Don’t take me back there. I don’t wanna go home.’

          ‘Okay, okay. I––D’you wanna come back to my place? It’s only a few blocks from here.’

          ‘I shouldn’t’ve pushed you away, darling. Oh, how hopeless I am! You only wanted to help me. You’re so sweet. But, I––’ her eyes drop to your lips, then away, and she closes her eyes, ashamed, ‘I don’t want to get too close. Not again; can’t keep doing that.’

          Steven Roger’s name is glowing in the night; her wrist sore.

          ‘I wanna take you somewhere safe, Peggy. Will you lemme do that? Hm? Will you lemme do that?’

          Peggy nods, but offers no further response.

          It’s good enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          You sneak Peggy into The Griffith, and when Peggy exclaims her surprise at how _grand_ the place is, you glare at her, and tell her to _shut up_. Peggy obeys, although startled at your aggressive nature. 

          If Miriam Fry catches you bringing in a girl (who’s, not to mention, drunk) late at night––well, you won’t just be faced with curious questions. You cringe at the consequences.

          Miriam approves of little things.

          And she does _not_ approve of _that_ behaviour.

          (You’d be better of bringing in a nice gentleman. At least, then, you’d only lose your home.) 

          (Not your life.)

          Locking the door, you whisper softly to Peggy, and sit her on the edge of your bed. Peggy is good, and stays quiet, even though a thousand queries and outbursts are desperate to rip from her lips. You love for that. You love her for understanding, for doing what she’s told, even in her drunk state.

          You pass Peggy a glass of cold water, affectionately run a hand across her cheek. 

          Peggy is cold.

          ‘Here.’ You drape a blanket over her shoulders, and she chuckles a little, possibly in thanks, possibly at your silly fussing. ‘If you wanna, you can stay here as long as you want. My room is yours.’

          ‘Thank you.’

          And she means it. 

          You smile. ‘I’m glad I found ya when I did.’

          A nod. She inhales. ‘My head hurts.’

          ‘Well, yeah, what d’ya expect, you doof?’ You roll your eyes, and gesture to the water, ‘Hey, drink up, and you’ll be all right. Can’t be sure you’ll avoid that hangover though.’ Peggy groans. ‘It’s your own fault.’

          ‘Angie?’

          ‘Yeah?’

          ‘I trust you.’

          The confession is so out of the blue, you’re stumped, but the way she says it, how she looks at you––you know those three words are _huge_. Peggy trusts you. Your throat narrows, and you lean closer, ‘I trust you too, Pegs.’ And a warmth passes between you both. 

          Peggy isn’t entirely sober yet, and she probably won’t be for another few hours. However, you have to admit, she does a fine job at trying to play sober. For you, she’s trying. 

          Maybe your friend was right.

          Maybe you are her saviour, and nothing less, nothing more. Maybe that is why Margaret Violet Carter is cut into your flesh. Because, after the war, after everything Peggy has endured, you would be there; an angel to guide her. Ease her out of her drunken addiction. 

          Treat her to a better fantasy. 

          A real, fulfilling fantasy. 

          Careful, so as to not startle her, you sit beside Peggy on the bed, and claim both of her hands. Peggy exhales, and rests her head on your shoulder, closing her eyes. Your heart jumps, and you blink, amazed at her approach, but you don’t dare push her away. You don’t want to push her away.

          You like this. You feel good like this. You _both_ feel good like this.

          ‘I’m your friend, Pegs. You gotta let me in.’

          It’s possible that Peggy will remember none of this the following morning, but you say it anyway. Because she has to know. Even though Captain America is down, dead, and turned to ash––she still has you. _You are on her side_. Whatever war Peggy is fighting, you are _there_.

          (There, with her.)

          ‘I wanna be your friend,’ your voice cracks, and you hate that. 

          Peggy stirs, opens her eyes and looks up at you. She’s dazed, drunk, and tired and––

          _––she kisses you_.

          Soft.

          Sceptical. 

          Earnest. 

          Her mouth hovers over yours, and your lips brush across her own. You gasp when she kisses you again, your heart pounding, vibrating in your skull, blood pulsing through your body––

          The touch of her tongue causes you to moan. You’re effortlessly seduced, insane for her, riddled with desire and love. 

          She tastes of alcohol. Nicotine. Everything ghastly.

          And you want her.

          You _need_ her.

          Desperate, another moan breaking through, you push your mouth onto hers. Fierce. Stubborn. And she responds in kind, her hand knotting in your hair, foot stroking across your leg. 

          Her name scorches your body now, and you’re terrified she may feel the heat. Your kisses turn deep, wet but soft and tender all the same; less hesitance from Peggy, but still cautious. Still her.

          Then her lips part from yours, and her eyes remain closed, breaths heavy. You rest your forehead against hers, gently stroking her face with your fingertips, and you watch, wait, for Peggy to make her next decision. 

          She presses a hand above your breast, unknowingly covering her own name on your skin.

          ‘May I stay the night?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          She stays the night, wrapped in your arms; you both still clothed, and you share light, small kisses; ghostly. 

          Reminders she is not alone. You’re here.

          You’re not going anywhere.

          Peggy falls asleep, one arm around your waist, snuggled against your chest. Due to the small bed, you’re pressed to each other, but it’s just as well. You need her close, and she needs you close. 

          You rest beside her, idly fiddling with Peggy’s collar. 

          Dream a life with the girl in your arms. 

          Perfection. 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

          When morning arrives, you scrunch your eyes shut and cling to the empty, cold space beside you. Of course you knew she wouldn’t be here. Once dreams have scattered, once the sun rises, Peggy will not be here; she will not have stayed. Crept away before the day catches her. 

          You think if you don’t wake up, if you dream a little more, then reality will not sink in. You will still believe she’s lying beside you.

_You don’t want to wake up_.

          The window is open.

          She escaped, unnoticed. Freed you from any potential chains. In a way, she saved your life, leaving in the night. In a way, she’s only made things that much more tricky. 

          You will not cry over Margaret Carter.

          Even if the name hurts, you can still hear her, and her kisses haunt you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          It is better not to wait.

          You won’t wait for her.

          (You _will_. You are destined to wait for your broken soldier.)

          A double shift is never easy, but you’ve suffered them enough to grow accustomed to them. Miriam wants her rent, and you’re lagging behind. The other girls have paid up; you haven’t.

          (You can’t quite face the street yet. You can’t quite face being homeless yet. Not yet.)

          ‘There’re jobs that pay more, baby girl.’

          Morality screamed at you to stop, but you accepted the tiny card; the business’s telephone number scribbled across. _You_ could pay more. Your body could pay more and, for a moment, you want it.

          Your choices are minimal. 

          The theatre isn’t yours, the diner pays little––you need the money.

          An address above the telephone number.

          You think of Papa, how he would feel if you did such a thing. And then you think of Peggy, and how she would look if you did such a thing. Stuffing the card into your pocket, you don’t call.

          Not immediately. 

          Peggy arrives at 1815, precisely. She’s not drunk.

          But she’s not sober either.

          ‘I apologise,’ she says before she’s seated. ‘I fear I may have discomforted you last night. I hope to never approach you in such a ghastly manner. Angie, I promise this disease will not last. I am doing everything in my power to overcome it.’ She looks at you, ‘I am trying.’

          You blink. Swallow.

_Apparently, English, you’re not trying hard enough_. ‘I’m glad you came back to me.’

          ‘Of course.’

          ‘You kissed me.’

          Peggy’s lips part, and then close. She’s lost for words. 

          Colour blossoms across her cheeks, and she’s beautiful, alive and flourishing. 

          ‘D’you remember?’

          ‘Yes.’ Peggy steps closer, stomach pressed to the bar. ‘I remember every second with you.’

          A shiver travels down your spine. You lose your breath. ‘Why’d’ya kiss me?’

          You have her cornered. Peggy is no longer the lioness, in pursuit of her frantic prey. Now, she is a tiny, fragile lamb, and she looks at you with wide, brown eyes, afraid at what you might possibly do to her. This amount of power you suddenly possess drives you crazy, and you shake.

          Peggy should never look at you like this.

          Ever.

          ‘I––’ She drops her gaze, ‘I don’t know.’

          ‘You don’t?’ It hurts. Knowing that she doesn’t know. It hurts.

          Peggy softens her expression, meets your eyes. ‘You’re good to me. You’re _really_ good to me, and it’s been so _long_ since––’ She inhales, ‘––since anybody has treated me right. _Seen me_.’

          ‘I see you everyday.’ Your lower lip quivers. You’re not sure what you mean, whether you see her in the literal sense, or something more. You see Peggy, her faults, her damage, her heart; every part of her. Leaning across the bar, you lower your voice, ‘I want you to stop this, English––the drinkin’.’

          ‘Angie––’

          ‘My uncle does it, too… sometimes, he says really nasty things when he’s like that. My cousin can’t stand him no more, and I don’t want you… I don’t want you turning into him… into anything like he is.’

          ‘I don’t––I _can’t_.’

          ‘I wanna help.’

          Her fist is clenched, tight. Jaw set. 

          She doesn’t walk away, though. Peggy exhales, shoulders slacken; all of her training gone to waste. She’s no longer a soldier, stiff and determined. She’s just a girl, just a weak, breaking girl in need of comfort. 

          Even if she’ll never admit it.

          ‘My love.’

          She takes your hands. They’re cold. You gasp.

          ‘You can’t save me.’

          Your heart stops. You plead. ‘I wear your name.’

          ‘Sorry?’

          ‘I wear your name, Peggy.’ She stares, silent. You grab her collar, pull her close, too close. ‘I’m meant t’save you.’ Tears blur your vision, and you want to hold her, kiss her, lay her beneath you; warm her in your embrace. ‘I’ve worn your name since I was a little girl.’

          She breathes, a feather to your lips. ‘I had no idea.’

          ‘I never told you.’

          ‘My love, I am _so_ sorry. Please don’t think I am your responsibility.’

          ‘I dunno what to think anymore. You keep comin’ back to me; like you were destined to. I keep findin’ you when ya need a hand. And I…’ Peggy frowns, gaze tender, and listens, ‘… and you’re all I think about. All the time.’

          ‘Oh.’ She visibly shudders. ‘You’re all that I think about, too.’

          ‘Peggy.’

          ‘You have become a light in my life, Angie. I come and see you everyday because––what else do I have? You distract me from my drink; distract me from my really _trying_ day.’

          ‘Stay with me.’

          ‘I can’t do that.’

          ‘Why?’

          Peggy hesitates, watching you. She’s desperate. Exhausted. She needs her drink, and she needs you, and she can’t have both. 

          ‘Because I can’t lose you too.’

          You don’t follow, but you’re startled. You’re suddenly afraid Peggy may start crying; her eyes twinkle, tears beginning to form, and your chest heaves, your body reacts, and your heart–– _your heart is about to suffocate you_. Peggy, her love, her name; _the love of your life drowns you; the surface of the water is too high, and you crash with every wave, and she fills your lungs with her aching words_.

          A long sigh escapes her lips.

          ‘I want to go dancing.’ She laughs quietly. You break. ‘That’s all I want.’

          ‘I’ll take ya dancin’.’

          ‘Sometimes, every time I so much as talk to you, it feels like a dance. And you move too fast for me to keep up.’

          You twitch a smile. Almost playful. ‘Need me to slow down?’

          ‘Perhaps. Or, maybe you need to stop altogether. Maybe I’m not the right partner for you––you need someone to match your speed, dear.’

          ‘I’m willing to put that to the test, English.’

          Peggy looks to the right, makes sure no one is watching, and then she reaches over to touch your cheek. 

          You don’t move, blink softly. 

          Her fingertips delicate on your flesh, travelling to your neck, lower, and then you think she can feel it: the name. She stops, above your breast, and her name burns at her presence. Peggy raises her eyes to meet yours, and you have over a million things to say, to whisper.

          ‘You are wonderful.’

          She says it as a confession, a vow. Dug deep into your soul. 

          When her hand retreats, the cold snaps, and you feel the need to hold yourself. Stay steady. 

          Instead, you grab her hand before she runs away.

          ‘I wanna meet you. Wait for me after my shift?’

          ‘Very well.’ She’s reluctant, but obliging all the same. You couldn’t ask for more. Releasing her hand, you hurry off to serve a customer, and you don’t look back, don’t check to make sure she’ll wait.

          You’ll take the risk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks. I just wanted to say thank you for the amount of support and encouragement I’ve received for this story. I do not take any of it for granted. In fact, one of the main reasons I’m still writing is because of you lovely people. So, thank you. Truly.
> 
> My guess is that two to three chapters are left of this story. I hope you stick with me until then. I shall continue updating everyday (unless something happens. If so, I’ll announce on Tumblr), around late afternoon time (GMT).


	5. Chapter 5

          The loyalty between you both is apparent. 

          When you walk to her, you go over in your mind the things which need to be said. And then you go over in your mind the things you _want_ to say. She sits in the same place as before, on the ledge. 

          You are hidden, the dark shadowing your faces; streetlamps guide your way to sit beside her, and she offers you her cigarette. You don’t enjoy nicotine very much, but you’re willing––you inhale deeply, and then inhale again, the drug burning your lungs, down your throat. 

          Unholy in your mouth.

          Peggy shuffles over to take the cigarette from you, and there’s a small, gentle smile across her lips. As if she knows. She knows you’re not a smoker, she knows you’re a good girl––deep down––and she isn’t right for you. She knows you deserve better, and that you refuse to believe it.

          ‘I lost a colleague today.’ You say nothing, and she continues. ‘I am not at the liberty of telling you the details, but my coworkers and I have been in mourning.’ She frowns, the cigarette between her lips. She inhales, exhales, smoke billowing into the night sky. ‘He loathed my presence and, yet, I find myself shedding a few tears over his corpse.’

          Peggy leans back, a hand behind to balance her. She’s so beautiful, so mysterious, so powerful. 

          ‘He was detestable. A married man, with multiple ladies on the side.’ The corner of your mouth twitches. You’re aware of that breed of male. ‘Not that _that_ is anything out of the ordinary.’ She smokes. ‘I am to blame for his death.’ She swallows, and throws aside the used cigarette. ‘That is what they believe anyway; that is why my career is currently hanging by a thread.’

          There are no words to describe how you feel. 

          You are conscious of them, each one, so heavy in your chest. Bubbling and boiling around your heart, scorching away the surface, scratching your bones. Your mind throbs, and you’re desperate to reach out and take her hand. With Peggy, it’s tricky to stay in control. 

          With Peggy, you’re mad. You’re falling in love with her every second, and it’s truly unfair. 

          You think about the kiss. Whether it should ever have been.

          So you say nothing. You’re a quiet little thing when the tension is too much; when you’re at a loss. When you’re blinded by your feelings, and discover that no words can reflect the beating of your heart. 

          You let Peggy do the talking for once.

          And her words _stab_. 

          ‘Pray tell.’ She looks at you, head titled, eyes twinkling in the night. Your lips part, and you’re in awe. ‘That you wear my name, and what you said isn’t complete fabrication.’

          ‘I do.’

          You move, and she stiffens a little. Straightening, you unbutton your diner uniform, past your bra, down to your stomach. Only Peggy witnesses your naked collarbone, your undergarments, but it is neither of those things which she cares about. Her eyes latch onto the name.

          In the night, it looks _ugly_.

          Red and sore, her name written in jagged letters. As if somebody has used a branding iron against you.

_Burned your skin alight._

          Peggy moves closer, so close you breathe on each other; gazes intimate and locked. Concern drapes her expression, and she closes any gaps, hiding you from view. Her fingers delicately trail over her name. You inhale, close your eye and look away. The tips of your cheek blush, and you allow her to study, you allow her to study you, as much as it triggers your body.

          A cool palm presses across her name. 

          It’s soothing, calm. It feels good. The singe of her name dies, quietens, and you open your eyes, find hers. 

          Peggy smiles softly. ‘I am glad.’ She exhales shakily. ‘I am glad it is you who wears my name.’ Her expression hardens a little. ‘Do you know who wears yours?’ A shake of your head. You may never know. Maybe nobody wears your name; maybe there are people who are not meant to be saved, and you’re one of them. Peggy’s smile returns, but it’s more sympathetic this time. ‘I see.’

          ‘I probably met them once,’ you allow. ‘I dunno.’

          ‘It doesn’t matter right now. I am… I am grateful you have been honest with me, my dear.’

          ‘Well, yeah.’ You laugh, exasperated. ‘Thought it’d be pretty dumb if I kept it to myself.’

          Then you button up your diner uniform, and Peggy’s eyes drop to the name, focussed on the letter _M_ until it’s disappeared behind the material. She catches her breath. It has been some time since Peggy has appeared so––haunted. The name has disturbed her, and you are to blame.

          You hold her hand.

          She flinches, but immediately cooperates, holding onto yours fiercely. You wonder why she is so jumpy; why she’s constantly alert. As if her enemy might jump out at any second.

          Poor girl.

          This poor, poor girl.

          You kiss her cheek, your lips wet and delicate. Peggy leans closer. Your mind blurs, your vision darkens, and you kiss her jawline, her cheek again, and she turns her head, finds your lips and you kiss. Kiss. Kiss sweetly, gently, so, so cautious and fragile with one another. 

          Her breaths are heavy in your mouth, across your skin, and you push into her. Both hands pull at her collar, at her blouse, fingers smoothing through her hair. You’re locked in her passion, her brilliance, her wonder. You can’t stop kissing her; you’re on a drug, on a spiral of destruction and pure _bliss_. Oh, she drives you crazy, and you love it, love her.

          Something heavy, close to arousal, drops to your abdomen. Leaves you _shaking_. You both peel apart, gasping for air; excitement and hunger pooling in your eyes. She matches your mood, bringing you forward, and embracing you; you embrace her back. In the dark, you hold your soldier girl close, kiss her forehead. 

          Try, try, try to erase her nightmares.

          What keeps her up at night.

          What waits for her at work.

          She rests her head on your shoulder, and you idly stroke your fingers through her hair. You will stay for as long as she needs you, even if that be all night. You will stay, and she will stay.

          ‘I got offered a job today.’

          ‘Hm? You did?’

          ‘I’d work with other gals––sort’ve… late work.’

          Peggy furrows her brows. ‘Late work?’

          You search for the business card in your pocket and bring it out. ‘Sort’ve that, yeah.’

          Peggy sits upright, to your displeasure, and takes the card. She barely reads the first line and she already knows what this job is about. You expect yells, threats and for her to walk away.

          To leave you.

          Peggy doesn’t. She blinks, raises her head to meet your gaze, and she’s soft and sympathetic and _understanding_. So, you continue: ‘He said it’d pay better, and I need the money… plus I’m behind on rent.’

          ‘Darling, why didn’t you tell me?’

          ‘You got enough on your plate, English.’

          ‘Nonsense. I always have time for you.’ Peggy glances at the card. She sighs. ‘Of course, _for your safety_ , I object to this career. I’d hate for you to be in any form of danger, and this job _is_ dangerous. Believe me, darling, I know danger, and I can’t live with the idea of you getting dragged into it as well.’

          Your heart swells. ‘I got no choice in a life like this, Pegs. Us gals gotta do bad things to get even.’

          ‘I know.’ Her face hardens again, and she’s certain. She’s sure. ‘At the end of the day, your career choice, what people say about you––that does not equal your worth. You know your value. Do whatever it takes to survive, darling, but I am your friend. I am here. Turn to me when you require help.’

          ‘I’m a big gal, English. I don’t gotta ask for help.’

          ‘Perhaps not, but even us big girls need somebody to lean on every now and again.’

          You smile warmly. ‘I wanna just do well, that’s all.’

          ‘I don’t want you giving up on your dream, my love. The lights of Broadway still wait for you. They always will.’

          ‘You’re cute, English.’

          ‘I have faith in you. I know that, whatever decision you make, you will come out all right in the end. You _are_ strong.’ She exhales. ‘Stronger than I could ever hope to be.’

          ‘You’re a tough dame yourself.’ Pride bursts inside you, and you need to touch her again. Her cheek falls victim to your hand, and you curl a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I ain’t that special.’ You giggle, possibly from lack of self confidence. You don’t know. How she watches you, _those eyes_. Can you be blamed for getting distracted? ‘Just some diner gal with nothin’ but a silly dream.’

          ‘I think you’re amazing.’

          Grabbing her face between your hands, you kiss her roughly. 

          Sharp gasps are shared as you both kiss hotly, passionate and full. You love her body on yours, her hands clinging to your coat, lips against yours, her scent––mixed with all evil and good––mussed in with yours, oh, you could _die_. You could stay with this girl––forever. You could stay with her.

          You could live with her.

          You could _love_ with her.

          ‘Please don’t make any drastic decisions without informing me first,’ Peggy says, lips brushing against yours. ‘I must know.’

          ‘I’ll tell ya,’ you whisper. ‘I wanna tell ya everythin’ about me, English.’

          ‘Shh, shh.’ She kisses you. ‘And I you. For now, I’m––not as available as I’d prefer to be. Once things are sorted at work, and once I’m back on my feet, I’d very much like to offer myself to you––if you’ll have me.’ You stare at her, heart racing. Pulse so fast, so heavy, you fear she may hear it. ‘You have been very kind to me, dear. I would hate to destroy what we have together.’

          ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

          ‘Thank you. You are so important to me.’

          You kiss her. Then you kiss her again. And again. 

          ‘Lemme bring you home.’

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

          Ever since your days as a young girl––little Angela, confused with the English language, mumbling Italian to the American girls and boys who laughed––you were punished into the belief that Home isn’t home; not Home where parents wait, smiles and love and open arms. That sort of Home is alien to you; you do not understand the concept.

          Parents are fierce, parents are stubborn, and parents love you in order to protect you. With your parents, you hid the name you wore, you hid _yourself_ , hid the kisses you shared with other girls, hid the regret and rubble when you kissed boys; you had your secrets. The place of secrets is not a place of Home. A sad truth: Home isn’t where your parents belong.

          Home has _developed_ as you’ve aged. 

          At one point, you thought Home was the L&L Automat; your diner. The building you’ve stepped inside everyday, spent most of your life. Work is your Home, but you know you’re not that type of person. You’re not addicted to your career. So, you consider the theatre––is Broadway Home?

          Surely Home is within reach; Home gives you a _chance_. 

          Is Home Italy, your birthplace, where children would play with sticks in the middle of the road; there was one boy in particular you’d chase in the small alleyways, and you recall one time he knocked over a stand of fruit, he was so giddy and excited in the game. You endure a sense of longing; you do miss the streets of Rome, the cobbled walkways, ardent chatter.

          When you sneak Peggy into The Griffith again, sober and smiling this time, you start to realise what Home really is. The Griffith, itself, isn’t Home. It is the place where you go to sleep. But you never considered it a place of safety, a place to guide Peggy into, as her light, her saviour, under a roof, hidden behind thick walls, where men and eyes cannot pry. 

          Your soldier is quiet while she follows you into your room. Together, you sit, on the bed, just as before. Yet it is all completely different. She knows about the name on your breast, and you know about her disease, and although words have not been voiced, it has been established between you both that there is something. Something to protect, something to hold onto, something worth living for. 

          Hand in yours, you want to kiss her, but you restrain yourself: there are confessions to be whispered, and, although it is a gradual step, she tells you a little, _a little_ , about the war. Why she misses it, why the comradeship is no longer _present_. How she was once an equal with men, walking and fighting side-by-side with them, but once the bell struck, once the war came to its eventual halt––

          ––she was cast aside. Considered an invalid, a soldier with bruises and impaled limbs. Anything other than a pale man with two arms, and two feet is considered an invalid. That is just how society works, and she hates its construct. She hates to admit it, but it’s not like the war; it’s not like that now, and it’s unbearable at times. You listen and listen and take in every utter.

          That is how they would have treated Steve. 

          An invalid, if he didn’t don his sapphire robes.

          You kiss her then. You kiss her mouth, hands gentle around her face, and you feel everything but pity for this overwhelming woman. This soldier who fights her own battles everyday, leaves her office soaked in blood, and _nobody notices_. Nobody notices, except the girl at the diner; except the nobody, a soldier’s name latched onto her breast.

          ‘Does it ever hurt?’

          ‘A lot lately.’

          ‘So did mine. When he was alive. There were days I could barely move my wrist, the pain was so dire. May I?’ Her fingertips are on your buttons, and you nod boldly, allowing her to uncover your breast again. The name is large and frightful. And then she kisses it.

          Peggy kisses her name, her lips soothing the ache, nursing the agony she is crushing onto you. You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, and she raises her eyes to look at you; runs a hand through your hair, kisses your lips. 

          Almost a blessing, a prayer of solace.

          ‘Will you accept me? Take me as your own? Will you allow me to love you?’

          You can’t believe she’s asking these questions. Of course your answer is yes, _oh a hundred yeses_! You would give _every part_ of yourself to her, every part, everything she may ever require in order to survive, to breathe, to walk away from her drink, _to move on and try again._  

          Even if that means taking her hand, sneaking her into The Griffith. Even if that means putting yourself in danger because of her suspicious work. Even if that means, one day, you’ll wait by the window for her return, and by sunrise, you will still be waiting for your lover’s ghost. 

          Even if that means following her to the grave.

          That is what the name has destined you to become; that is what Margaret Violet Carter means to you.

          A life without her, why–– _it is no life at all_. 

          ‘I’m yours,’ you whisper, falling into searing kisses. She smiles against your lips, and her happiness is yours to melt in, and you do, _you drown in her joy and she drowns with you and it is flawless_. 

          The Heavens breathe their sigh. 

          You kiss her over and over, and her love, her heart, is yours entirely. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Perhaps, Home is in a _person_. The person who protects you, welcomes you with open arms, _changes for the better for you._ Maybe Home is what makes you smile, brightens your day, creates the small, tiny changes in your life to make it that much more bearable. Maybe that is what Soulmates are: a simple essence of Home.

          You are hers.

          She is yours.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          The quiet, soft jazz emits the room and you take her hand, lead her forwards, and you offer her the only gift she’s ever wanted.

          A dance.

          Curtains draped, the moon hanging in the dark sky, with only the gentle rhythm to silence your beating heart, you feel her start to guide you.  Her fingers intertwining with yours, a hand smoothing down your waist, resting lightly at your hip. 

          A mischievous smile reaches your lips, and she guides you, leads you, and you learn and it’s smooth and consummate.

          You match her speed, her accelerated breaths, the manner of her movements.

 

 

          You shadow her partner: just right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was so _relaxing_ to write, and it means a lot to me. It ended much sooner than I anticipated, as well! Thank you so much for your exciting and supportive feedback. It means the world to me. Please do share your thoughts on the final chapter, and how you felt about the story as a whole. I'd love to hear back from you. Until next time!
> 
> My Tumblr: wreckofherheart


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